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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

Chap Copyright No 

SheIi\E 5i3l4 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



IDLE IDYLS 



By the Same Author 
THE JINGLE BOOK 
THE STORY OF BETTY 
AT THE SIGN OF THE 
SPHINX 



IDLE IDTLS 



'By CAROLYN WELLS 

Pictured by 
OLIVER HERFORD 




NEW YORK • DODD, MEAD 
AND COMPANY • MDCCCC 



Copyright, 1900, by DODD, 
Mead and Company 



< Ki , - - 

Library of Congress 

Tvc Copies Rei 
NOV 14 1900 J 

fc,,V\K3>.ft 

SECOND COPY 
Delivered to 

ORDER DIVISION 



No 






)1« 



UNIVERSITY PRESS ■ JOHN WILSON 
AND SON • CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 



To OLIVER HERFORD 
GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, &■ FRIEND 



c o n r e n r s 



The Spelling Lesson 3 

A Warning 4 

Sighted 7 

Tit for Tat 9 

To Omar 10 

To a Milkmaid 13 

An Artistic Evening 15 

A Secret Woe 16 

The Derelict 19 

A Patient Lover 20 

Fate 21 

My Choice 22 

To a Poet 24 

The Latest Fad 26 

The Poster Girl's Defence 28 

vii 



CONTENTS 



Ballade of Old Loves 30 

Maiden Meditation 32 

A Rara Avis 33 

A Pastoral in Posters . 35 

A Ballade of Revolt 36 

The 111 Wind 38 

The Whist Player's Soliloquy 40 

My Friends 42 

To Certain Conservatives 43 

The Annual Sentence 46 

A Ballade of Indignation 47 

My Familiar 49 

A Ballad of Christmas Burdens 51 

The Poster Girl 54 

Sonnet on the Sonnet on the Sonnet .... 56 

Spring's Revenge 57 

A Ballade of Petition 62 

Cupid's Failure 64 

The Celebrants 65 

" They that go down to the Sea in Ships " . 66 

A Maiden's No 69 

The Original Summer Girl 70 

viii 



CONTENTS 



The Debutante 71 

Ballade of Wisdom and Folly 73 

A Possibility 75 

A Memory 76 

The Vampire of the Hour 78 

An Aquarelle 80 

In Absence 83 

From Vivette's Milkmaid 84 

A Woman's Wail 85 

The Discriminant 88 

Nothing to Read 90 

A Picture 94 

A Problem 95 

The Degenerate Novelist 98 

Her Spinning- Wheel 99 

Unkind Fate 100 

Woman's Way 102 

One Week 105 

The Trailing Skirt 106 

Quatrain 109 

The Ballade of The Ad 110 

Aubrey Beardsley's Pictures 112 

ix 



CONTENTS 



Her Easter Morning 113 

An Unwritten Poem 115 

The Book Lifter 118 

Utilitarian 121 

Under a New Charter 122 

Left 125 

An Explanation 126 

The Lay of Lothario Lee 127 

Christmas Eve 132 

Past and Present 133 

Epitaph on a Ballet Dancer 13 5 

An Important Trust 136 

An Unorthodox Christmas 138 

In the Klondike 140 

Cela Va Sans Dire 142 

The Thoughtful Yardstick 143 

Auf Wiedersehen 144 

Of Modern Books 145 

The Horseless Age 147 

The Tragedy of a Theatre Hat 148 

Ballade of Ecclesiastes 154 



IDLE IDYLS 



' T AM nae Poet, in a sense, 

But just a Rhymer, like, by chance, 
An' hue to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter} 
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, 
I jinglt at her." 



IDLE IDYLS 



THE SPELLING LESSON 

WHEN Venus said : " Spell no for me," 
" N-O," Dan Cupid wrote with glee, 
And smiled at his success ; 
" Ah, child," said Venus, laughing low, 
" We women do not spell it so, 
We spell it Y-E-S." 



A WARNING 

OH, you Summer Girl! 
You ridiculous, absurd, hackneyed, over- 
worked, adorable Summer Girl ! 
You shirt-waisted goddess 
And sailor-hatted sylph, 
You picturesque potpourri of outing effects, 
You think you 're great, 
Don't you ? 
And you are. 

You 're a power, and a queen, and a tyrant. 
And you know it, 
And you glory in it. 
And I don't blame you. 
I think you 're all right myself. 
But — 

Although you rule your young men, 
Your swains and gallants and cavaliers — 
Although you think 
All mankind bow beneath your sway, 
It is n't true. 
1 defy you ! 

4 



A WARNING 



I! 

I am your lord and master, and of me you are 

afraid ; 
Abjectly, shrinkingly, and shudderingly afraid. 
Who am I ? 
I am Time, Father Time; your friend and ally 

now. 
But remember, 
I have you in my power, 
Irrevocably in my power, 
And at my will I can transform you into a crone, 
An old, wrinkled, haggard, toothless crone. 
But I won't do it — at least, not now. 
For a few years I will let you defy me. 
You may misuse me, waste me, and even try to kill 

me, 
And I will only serve you faithfully in return, 
And bring you triumphs and happinesses. 
But some day 

I will steal your treasures — 
Your bewitching gowns, 
And coquettish hats. 
Yes, and I will steal 
The roses from your cheeks 
And the sparkle from your eyes. 
And then, milady, 

5 



IDLE IDYLS 



What will you do ? 

But meanwhile, Summer Girl, 

Have all the fun you can. 

And now, 

Run away and play. 



SIGHTED 

CT, VALENTINE'S ship comes sailing 
^ Across the Sea of Dreams ; 
Roses hang from the railing, 
The golden pennant gleams. 

Blown by the winds of Fancy, 

Careless of maps or charts ; 
Steered by Love's necromancy, 

And ballasted with hearts. 

Across the space between us 

She glides on even keel ; 
Her figurehead 's a Venus, 

And Cupid 's at the wheel. 

The turtle-doves are swinging 
In wreaths hung from the bow ; 

Youth at the helm is singing, 
And Pleasure at the prow. 

7 



IDLE IDYLS 



Freighted with fair Romances, 
Love-knots and ribbons blue ; 

As nearer she advances 
I hear the ringdoves coo. 

Ho ! maidens, all be merry, 
And, gallants, pay your court ; 

Fourteenth of February 
She will arrive in port. 



TIT FOR TAT 

QECURE from observation, 
^ A Bookworm made his home 
And pursued his occupation 
In a dry and dusty tome, 

Made by some wise old sages 
That lesser minds might learn. 

The Bookworm turned the pages 
(For even a worm will turn) . 

He said, " What prosy leaders ! 

And, judging by its look, 
This book has bored its readers, 

Now I will bore the book." 



TO OMAR 



( MAR KHAYYAM, you 're a jolly old Aryan, 
Half sybaritic and semi-barbarian, 
Not a bit mystic, but utilitarian, 
Fond of a posy and fond of a dram. 
Symbolist, poet, and clear-eyed philosopher, 
Had you a wife I am sure you were boss of her, 
Yet you 'd be ruled by the coquettish toss of her 
Garland-crowned head at you, Omar Khayyam. 
For there is vanity 
In your humanity, 
Else your urbanity 
Were but a flam ; 
And the severity 
Of your austerity 
Proves your sincerity, 
Omar Khayyam. 

Well I remember when first you were heralded, 
Persian-born poesy ably Fitzgeralded ; 
Impulse said buy you — and I to my peril did : 
Now a meek slave to your genius I am. 

IO 



TO OMAR 



Some of your doctrines to us may seem hatable, 

Though we admit that the themes are debatable ; 

But your ideas, are they really translatable 

Into our languages, Omar Khayyam ? 

In your society 

All inebriety 

Seems but propriety, 

Truth but a sham ; 

And the reality 

Of your carnality 

Courts immortality, 

Omar Khayyam. 

From the grave depths of your massive tranquil- 
lity 
Thoughts you produce, knowing well their fu- 
tility, 
Thoughts that you phrase with a fatal facility, — 
Hurl with the force of a battering-ram ! 
But we care not though your message be cynical, 
Not very creedal, and scarcely rabbinical, 
We, your adorers, put you on a pinnacle, 
For that we love you, old Omar Khayyam. 
Though you 're erroneous, 
Still you 're harmonious, 
And you 're euphonious 

1 1 



IDLE IDYLS 



In epigram. 
O'er the censorious 
You are victorious ; 
We hold you glorious, 
Omar Khayyam. 



12 



TO A MILKMAID 

T HAIL thee, O milkmaid ! 
•*• Goddess of the gaudy morn, hail ! 
Across the mead tripping, 
Invariably across the mead tripping, 
The merry mead with cowslips blooming, 
With daisies blooming, 
The milkmaid also more or less blooming ! 
I hail thee, O milkmaid ! 

I recognise the value of thy pail in literature and art. 
What were a pastoral poet without thee ? 
Oh, I know thee, milkmaid ! 
I hail thy jaunty juvenescence. 
I know thy eighteen summers and thy eternal springs. 
Ay, I know thy trials ! 

1 know how thou art outspread over pastoral poetry. 
Rampant, ubiquitous, inevitable, thy riotings in pas- 
toral poetry, 
And in masterpieces of pastoral art ! 
How oft have I seen thee sitting ; 
On a tri-legged stool sitting ; 
On the wrong side of the cow sitting ; 
*3 



IDLE IDYLS 



Garbed in all thy preposterous paraphernalia. 

I know thy paraphernalia — 

Yea, even thy impossible milk pail and thy improbable 

bodice. 
Short-skirted siren ! 
Big-hatted beauty ! 

What were the gentle spring without thee ? 
I hail thee ! 
I hail thy vernality, and I rejoice in thy hackneyed 

ubiquitousness. 
I hail the superiority of thy inferiorness, and 
1 lay at thy feet this garland of gratuitous 
Hails ! 




i?-yu <■ > /'• 



AN ARTISTIC EVENING 

TURNER sunset flickered on the madly-scarlet 
hills, 

And the valley had a Wordsworth atmosphere ; 
The babbling little brooklet ran in Tennysonian rills, 
And a Rosa Bonheur cow was grazing near. 

A crescent moon was floating on the Vereshchagin sky, 

The heavens were with Ruskin clouds o'erspread ; 

A lanky Burne-Jones maiden, with a halo, wandered 

by, 
While a Millet rustic stood and hung his head. 

The primrose at the old stand blossomed by the 
river's brim, 
A nightingale or two began to sing, 
And Bouguereau's Bather murmured, as she went to 

take her swim : 
" I think that we shall have a Corot Spring." 



«5 



A SECRET WOE 



A GIBSON Girl was hanging in a frame upon 
my wall ; 
She was exceeding graceful and she was exceeding 

tall. 
I suppose I must have dreamed it, though 1 thought 

1 was awake, 
But that Gibson maiden softly sighed, and then she 

softly spake. 
Her voice was low and lovely, her diction was correct, 
Her language such as from a Gibson Girl one might 

expect ; 
But she seemed a bit unhappy, and a tear was in her 

eye, 
So I sympathetically begged that she would tell me 

why. 
She smiled a little sadly, and in a wistful tone 
She rather intimated she had troubles of her own. 
Then she folded her long Gibson arms and shook 

her Gibson head, 
Tossed back her wavy Gibson hair, and this is what 

she said: 

16 



A SECRET WOE 



" I know that I am stunning, I know I 'm chic and 

swell ; 
My costumes are perfection, and I pose extremely well. 
I can play at golf or tennis, I can skate or swim or 

ride; 
I 've been admired in every role from de'butante to 

bride. 
1 look charming in a shirt waist, and I 'm given every 

chance 
To display my Gibson shoulders at a dinner or a 

dance. 
My features are patrician, and my figure is n't bad ; 
I 'm never out of drawing, and I am the present fad. 
And yet — 1 know 1 'm silly, but I 'm longing to be 

short — 
A little doll-faced girlie of the airy, fairy sort. 
To be caressed and petted, called Bebe and Petite ; 
To be told that I have tiny hands and Cinderella feet ; 
To be shielded and protected lest 1 overtax my 

strength ; 
To wear coats and skirts and dresses of an ordinary 

length. 
And besides," — her sweet voice faltered, and her 

Gibson eyelids drooped, 
And round her fingers nervously her handkerchief 

she looped, — 

* 17 



IDLE IDYLS 



" I met my fate this summer, — I did, really, — and 

you see 
1 'm awfully in love with him, and he 's in love with 

me. 
He 's the dearest man in all the world, but he is n't 

very tall, 
So that 's another reason why I wish that 1 were small. 
When I think of all my Gibson beaus of six feet, 

eight, or more, 
1 marvel that I 've given my heart to a man of five 

feet four." 
She said no more, but silently she hung there in her 

place ; 
A Gibson impassivity stole o'er her perfect face : 
And I love her and admire her as a. clever work of 

art, 
But I pity that poor Gibson Girl, because 1 know 

her heart. 



18 



THE DERELICT 

UPON the sad, illusive Sea of Dreams, 
A phantom barque, tossed by the billows, rides 
At mercy of the shifting winds and tides ; 
And on its ghostly sail the moonlight gleams. 
Abandoned by all mariners it seems ; 
No staying hand its reckless rudder guides, 
Yet smoothly o'er the trackless deep it glides, 
Unheeding that its course with danger teems. 

Across the watery dark my way I grope, 

I will adopt this derelict so fair ; 

I raise my flag and float my colours there — 
But with its waywardness I cannot cope ; 

I, too, abandon it in my despair, 
It is unseaworthy. Its name is Hope. 



*9 



A PATIENT LOVER 

MY sweetheart is a treasure 
And I love her beyond measure, 
And each day 1 have discovered some new and 
charming trait ; 
But it made me feel the saddest 
When I found she was a faddist, 
And that I must be neglected for caprices up to 
date. 

At one time it was Browning, 
Then, First Aid to the Drowning, 
Then Trying to Discover why Cats Land on their 
Feet; 
Then Bric-a-brac Collecting, 
Then Views on Vivisecting, 
Then a dainty Kind of Slumming in a very dirty 
Street. 

Goodness knows what next it will be, 
For a long time it was " Trilby," 

Until unto Napoleon she became a devotee ; 
Now it 's Joan of Arc and her Age ; 
But I try to keep up courage, 

For I hope the time is coming when she '11 make 
a fad of me. 



FATE 



TWO shall be born the whole world wide apart, 
And speak in different tongues, and pay their 
debts 
In different kinds of coin ; and give no heed 
Each to the other's being. And know not 
That each might suit the other to a T, 
If they were but correctly introduced. 
And these, unconsciously, shall bend their steps, 
Escaping Spaniards and defying war, 
Unerringly toward the same trysting-place, 
Albeit they know it not. Until at last 
They enter the same door, and suddenly 
They meet. And ere they 've seen each other's face 
They fall into each other's arms, upon 
The Broadway cable car — and this is Fate ! 



21 



MY CHOICE 

POETS in dainty verse express 
The charms of maid or lady fair ; 
They rhyme their praises of her dress, 
Or laud the snood that binds her hair. 
Sylvia's shoe 's beyond compare, — 
{Catherine's kirtle 's tightly laced, — 

But in these themes 1 have no share, 
I sing my Polly's pink shirt waist. 

The stately ruff of good Queen Bess, 

Or Cleopatra's mantle rare, 
Have each a charm, I will confess, — 

The peasant's garb is debonair; 

The Gainsborough with its flaunting flare, 
Demure Priscilla's kerchief chaste, — 

None of these may my heart ensnare, 
I sing my Polly's pink shirt waist. 

Although the white veil seems to bless 
The novice as she kneels in prayer ; 

Though cap and gown achieve success 
In college or professor's chair ; 



MY CHOICE 



Toilettes which 'neath the gas-light's glare 
The haughty ball-room belle have graced, — 

For praise of these, go, search elsewhere, 
I sing my Polly's pink shirt waist. 



L'ENVOI 

Princess, I mind not what you wear, 
Your royal robes suit not my taste ; 

For silks and gems I do not care, 
I sing my Polly's pink shirt waist. 



23 











YES, Poet, I am coming down to earth, 
To spend the merry months of blossom-time ; 
But don't break out in pagans of glad mirth 
Expressed in hackneyed rhyme. 
24 



TO A POET — BY SPRING 

For once, dear Poet, won't you kindly skip 

Your ode of welcome ? It is such a bore ; 
I am no chicken, and 1 've made the trip 
Six thousand times or more. 

And as I flutter earthward every year, 

You must admit that it grows rather stale 
When I arrive, repeatedly to hear 

The same old annual " Hail ! " 

Time was when I enjoyed the poets' praise, 

Will Shakspere's song, or Mr. Milton's hymn ; 
Or even certain little twittering lays 
By ladies quaint and prim. 

Chaucer and Spenser filled me with delight, — 
And how I loved to hear Bob Herrick woo ! 
Old Omar seemed to think 1 was all right, 
And Aristotle, too. 

But I am sated with this fame and glory, 

Oh, Poet, leave Parnassian heights unsealed ; 
This time let me be spared the same old story, 
And come for once unhailed ! 



25 



THE LATEST FAD 

N ANNETTE is just the dearest girl; 
To her I vow my love and duty ; 
From slipper-tip to shining curl 

She 's my ideal of dainty beauty. 
She 's all a fiancee should be, 

No words are fond enough to praise her ; 
But life has lost its charm for me 
Since Nan became a crystal-gazer. 

The passing fad of each new day 

Has caught her somewhat fickle fancy ; 
It nearly took my breath away 

When she went in for Chiromancy. 
She studied Psychical Research, 

And Hypnotism did n't faze her ; 
She even joined the Buddhist church ; 

But now she is a crystal-gazer. 

Some of her fads 1 rather liked, — 
Her cult of Ibsen, or of Browning, 

Her swagger costume when she biked, 
Her Dress Reform and Delsarte gowning ; 
26 



THE LATEST FAD 



I liked it when she tried to cook 
Crabs a la Newburg in her blazer ; 

But life takes on a different look 
Since Nan became a crystal -gazer. 

Her fervid gaze she concentrates, — 

That crystal ball her constant focus ; 
She ardently invokes the Fates 

And all their mystic hocus-pocus, 
With muscles tense, and head erect, 

Until the gleaming crystal sways her 
(I 've known it to have that effect, 

Though I am not a crystal-gazer) . 

Of course I know it 's but a freak, 

The very latest London notion ; 
She may forget it in a week 

And find some other new devotion. 
But with my heart too long she 's played, 

I wonder if it would amaze her 
If I should woo another maid 

While Nan remains a crystal -gazer. 



2 7 



THE POSTER GIRL'S DEFENCE 



TT was an Artless Poster Girl pinned up against 
-*■ my wall, 

She was tremendous ugly, she was exceeding tall ; 
I was gazing at her idly, and 1 think 1 must have 

slept, 
For that poster maiden lifted up her poster voice, and 

wept. 

She said between her poster sobs, " I think it 's rather 

rough 
To be jeered and fleered and flouted, and I 've stood 

it long enough ; 
I 'm tired of being quoted as a Fright and Fad and 

Freak, 
And I take this opportunity my poster mind to speak- 

" Although my hair is carmine and my nose is edged 

with blue, 
Although my style is splashy and my shade effects 

are few, 

28 



THE POSTER GIRL'S DEFENCE 



Although 1 'm out of drawing and my back hair is 

a show, 
Yet I have n't half the whimseys of the maidens that 

you know. 

" I never keep you waiting while I prink before the 

glass, 
I never talk such twaddle as that little Dawson lass, 
I never paint on china, nor erotic novels write, 
And I never have recited ' Curfew must not ring to- 
night.' 

" 1 don't rave over Ibsen, I never, never flirt, 

I never wear a shirt waist with a disconnected skirt ; 

I never speak in public on ' The Suffrage,' or ' The 

Race,' 
1 never talk while playing whist, or trump my partner's 

ace." 

1 said : " O artless Poster Girl, you 're in the right 

of it, 
You are a joy forever, though a thing of beauty, nit ! " 
And from her madder eyebrows to her utmost purple 

swirl, 
Against all captious critics I '11 defend the Poster Girl. 



29 



BALLADE OF OLD LOVES 

T X 7 HO is it stands on the polished stair, 

' V A merry, laughing, winsome maid, 

From the Christmas rose in her golden hair 

To the high-heeled slippers of spangled suede ? 

A glance, half daring and half afraid, 
Gleams from her roguish eyes downcast ; 

Already the vision begins to fade — 
*T is only a ghost of a Christmas Past. 

Who is it sits in that high-backed chair, 

Quaintly in ruff and patch arrayed, 
With a mockery gay of a stately air 

As she rustles the folds of her old brocade, — 

Merriest heart at the masquerade ? 
Ah, but the picture is passing fast 

Back to the darkness from which it strayed — 
T is only a ghost of a Christmas Past. 

Who is it whirls in a ball-room's glare, 
Her soft white hand on my shoulder laid, 

Like a radiant lily, tall and fair, 
While the violins in the corner played 
3° 



BALLADE OF OLD LOVES 

The wailing strains of the Serenade ? 
Oh, lovely vision, too sweet to last — 

E'en now my fancy it will evade — 
'T is only a ghost of a Christmas Past. 

L'ENVOI 

Rosamond ! look not so dismayed, 
All of my heart, dear love, thou hast. 

Jealous, belove'd ? Of a shade ? — 
T is only a ghost of a Christmas Past. 



3* 



MAIDEN MEDITATION 

(A RONDEAU) 

MYRTILLA thinks ! be still, oh, breeze, 
Ye birds, cease warbling in the trees, 
Ye wavelets, your light plash subdue, 
Ye turtle-doves, neglect to coo, 
And silent be, ye buzzing bees, 

Lest even your soft harmonies 
Intrude upon such thoughts as these, 
For though astonishing, 't is true, 
Myrtilla thinks ! 

Plunged in profoundest reveries, 
Fair visions her rapt fancy sees ; 

So undecided what to do — 

Shall she wear pink ? shall she wear blue ? 
Amid her pretty fineries 
Myrtilla thinks ! 



3 2 




A RARA AVIS 



O 



, NCE there was an Easter Bonnet 
With some wings and feathers on it, 
And a tiny shiny buckle in a bit of ribbon shirred. 
Said the ladies, " Please inform us 
Why its bill is so enormous," 

And that foolish little Easter Bonnet thought it 
was a bird ! 
3 33 



IDLE IDYLS 



It slyly watched its chances, 
And escaping people's glances, 
It flew straight out the window and it lighted on 
a tree. 
With fear its wings were quaking, 
And its little frame was shaking, 
But it sat there smiling bravely though 'twas 
frightened as could be. 

Said the birds, " You 're of our feather, 
Come and let us flock together," 
But the Bonnet answered proudly, " I 'm exclusive 
and select ; 
And although 1 could be pleasant 
To an ostrich or a pheasant, 
For me to herd with common birds you really 
can't expect." 

Said a hunter, " This is pretty, 
I will take it home to Kitty," 
Then he aimed his gun and shot it and it fell with- 
out a word. 
Then it gave a final flutter, 
And pertly seemed to mutter, 
" Well, after all, 1 'd rather be a Bonnet than a 
bird." 



34 



A PASTORAL IN POSTERS 



/ "T" V HE mid-day moon lights up the rocky sky ; 

•*■ The great hills flutter in the greenish breeze ; 
While far above the lowing turtles fly 
And light upon the pinky-purple trees. 

The gleaming trill of jagged, feathered rocks 

I hear with glee as swift I fly away, 
And over waves of subtle woolly flocks 

Crashes the breaking day ! 



35 



A BALLADE OF REVOLT 



VyASHINGTON'S cherry-tree I prize, 

* * And Jonah's whale, — and how I hate 
Iconoclasts who would revise 

The old traditions, small or great. 

Yet there be fools who idly prate 
Of late research ; and some buffoon 

Declares the old man out of date, — 
Now there 's a woman in the moon. 

Aggressive women 1 despise, 

Yet they are everywhere of late ; 
Insistent, bold, and overwise, 

They meddle with affairs of state. 

Unending trouble they create, 
And deem their services a boon ; 

Much grave disturbance I await, 
Now there 's a woman in the moon. 

I know just how she '11 scrutinise 

Each timid lover and his mate ; 
She '11 slyly peer with curious eyes, 

When Dick and I shall stroll or skate ; 
3 6 



A BALLADE OF REVOLT 

I 'm positive, at any rate, 
I would n't even dare to spoon 

With Robbie Smithers at the gate, 
Now there 's a woman in the moon. 

L'ENVOI 

Sweetheart, it is a cruel fate, 
Her advent 's most inopportune ; 

It spoils our moonlight tete-a-tete, 
Now there 's a woman in the moon. 



37 



T 



THE ILL WIND 

HE Little 111 Wind that blows nobody good 
Came puffing along as fast as he could. 



And he thought to himself as he wickedly blew, 
" What mischief a little ill wind can do ! " 

He came on the wild-rose bush with a bound, 
And the prettiest petals fell off on the ground. 

The leaves on the trees he kept ashake 
Till their poor little stems began to ache. 

Oh, he was a bad little, mad little wind, 
In every possible way he sinned. 

If a passer-by sniffed the new-mown hay, 
He blew its fragrance the other way. 

He tickled the grasses until they shook, 
And tirelessly ruffled a placid brook. 

He broke the string of Tot's balloon, 
And carried it upwards toward the moon. 
38 



THE ILL WIND 



He blew back the tress of Clorinda's hair, — 
Which her lover had just resolved to dare. 

Then he came to my window, with cheeks puffed out, 
And blew my papers all about. 

Till I threatened to put him in print some day, — 
Which frightened him so that he blew away 

And hid himself in the depths of the wood, 
That little 111 Wind that blows nobody good. 



39 



THE WHIST PLAYER'S 
SOLILOQUY 

TO trump, or not to trump, — that is the ques- 
tion; 
Whether 't is better in this case to notice 
The leads and signals of outraged opponents, 
Or to force trumps against a suit of diamonds, 
And by opposing, end them ? 

To trump, — to take, — 
No more ; and by that trick to win the lead 
And after that return my partner's spades 
For which he signalled, — 't is a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. To trump, — to take, — 
To take ! perchance to win ! Ay, there 's the rub ; 
For if we win this game, what hands may come 
When we have shuffled up these cards again ! 
Play to the score ? Ah ! yes, there 's the defect 
That makes this Duplicate Whist so much like work. 
For who would heed the theories of Hoyle, 
The laws of Pole, the books of Cavendish, 
The Short-suit system, leads American, 
The Eleven Rule Finesse, the Fourth-best play, 
40 



THE W HIST PLAYER'S SOLILOQUY 

The Influence of Signals on the Ruff, 

When he himself this doubtful trick might take 

With a small two-spot ? Who would hesitate 

But that the dread of something afterward, 

An undiscovered discard, or forced lead 

When playing the return, puzzles the will, 

And makes us rather lose the tricks we have 

To win the others that we know not of. 

Thus Duplicate Whist makes cowards of us all ; 

And thus the native hue of Bumblepuppy 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, 

And good whist players of great skill and judgment, 

With this regard their formulas defy, 

And lose the game by ruffing. 



41 



MY FRIENDS 

WITHIN one room, around one desk 
Consorted scribblers three ; 
Each one was more or less renowned, — 
Kipling and Howells and me. 

Kipling - sat there with pen in hand, 

But not a word wrote he ; 
And Howells, too, seemed lost in thought, - 

Which was the case with me. 

And Kipling smiled a blooming smile 

In sympathetic glee, 
As from his heights of cleverness 

He kindly looked on me. 

Howells leaned back and closed his eyes 

Quite introspectively ; 
Which somehow seemed to make me think 

That he approved of me. 

They '11 never write, they '11 never speak, — 
They 're photographs, you see ; 

But still, we are a jolly crowd, — 
Kipling and Howells and me. 

42 



TO CERTAIN CONSERVATIVES 



WHY this tempest in a teapot ? Why this much 
ado for naught ? 
Why this worry lest some literary wares be cheaply 
bought ? 



Our Few Books lie at our elbow, then what matters 
it to us 

If the Average Reader's stock of books is multi- 
tudinous ? 



If the publishers are issuing editions large and cheap, 
Tis because the Average Reader will not pay the 
prices steep. 

We should smile on them benignly and feel very 

glad indeed ; 
For when books were rare and costly, these same 

people did n't read. 

And I think that the Enlightened surely ought to 

understand 
That the Cheapening Process came to meet a Popular 

Demand. 

43 



IDLE IDYLS 



Just as in all other branches imitators imitate — 
Since we eat with sterling silver, must there be no 
triple plate ? 

We may have a clever chef, yet some there be who 

use canned soups, — 
Though we own a rare Bacchante there's demand 

for Rogers' Groups. 

And there is no use in talking to our Unenlightened 

Friend, 
If he has the Cheap Book habit, nothing can his fate 

forfend. 

T is the manner not the matter that is cheapened, 

for there be 
Fausts for thirty-seven cents and Rubaiyats fcr 

twenty-three. 

And the Average Reader buys them at a large De- 
partment Store, 
Next day delivered carriage free at his suburban door. 

But what is this to us ? What boots it with inces- 
sant care 

To try to change the leopard's spots ? It is n't our 
affair. 

44 



TO CERTAIN CONSERVATIVES 

And if our neighbour's cheapened books are cheapen- 
ing his cheap brain, 

It only proves all efforts to reform him would be 
vain. 

We Enlightened will continue as of yore to buy our 

books, 
Not The Handy Gimcrack Series, nor editions de 

luxe; 

But with calm discrimination we will buy the books 

we need, 
And our brains will not be cheapened as absorbedly 

we read. 



45 



THE ANNUAL SENTENCE 

SOCIETY in wig and gown 
Sat in the judge's place, 
The sternest kind of legal frown 
Upon her charming face. 

She sadly shook her pretty head : 
" On account of their wicked ways, 

The World, the Flesh, and the Devil," she said, 
" Are sentenced for forty days ! " 



4 6 



A BALLADE OF INDIGNATION 

NOW if there is one thing I hate 
It is lame vers de societe, 
And I cannot help feeling irate 
With the versemongers writing to-day. 
They rhyme a thing any old way, 
They regard neither science nor schools ; 

But when the French Forms they essay, 
At least they might follow the rules. 

They consider themselves " up-to-date " 

If they 've written a Sonnet to May, 
And fancy they feel on their pate 

A chaplet of laurel or bay. 

At a triolet or virelai 
They rush, like proverbial fools, — 

But in their wild, wordy display 
At least they might follow the rules. 

In their ignorance boldly elate, 
To rhymes no attention they pay ; 

They ride at a rollicking gait 
On a Pegasus madly astray. 
47 



IDLE IDYLS 



No hindrance their progress will stay, 
No remonstrance their mad ardour cools, 

But in their syllabic array 
At least they might follow the rules. 

L'ENVOI 

Calliope, pardon, I pray, 
These workmen without any tools, 

And to them this message convey : 
At least they might follow the rules. 



4 8 



MY FAMILIAR 

THERE 'S a little Lincoln Devil that hangs above 
my desk, 
An ugly, yellow plaster imp, exceedingly grotesque ; 
But a human, real intelligence in his weird face I see, 
And a subtle sympathy exists between my imp and 
me. 

He 's a grinning, graceless rascal, like Kipling's Gunga 

Din, 
And he has a sense of humour that is marvellously 

keen ; 
He hears gravely all my joking, and then when I 

have done, 
He seems to shake his shaggy sides, convulsed with 

silent fun. 

I confide to him my secret woes, reveal to him my 

grief, 
For somehow, from his elfish eyes he 's sure to blink 

relief ; 
All my highest aspirations and my fondest hopes I 

bring, 
For he hears me with a thoughtful gaze that 's most 

encouraging. 
4 49 



IDLE IDYLS 



I acknowledge my shortcomings, and he scowls in 

glum reproof, 
As with his lean and horny claws he grips his cloven 

hoof. 
And then the day my heart broke, — when I told it 

all to him 
A sort of yearning tenderness stole o'er his features 

grim; 

But the dogged, brave endurance of his fixed and 

stony stare, 
His hard-drawn mouth and firm-set teeth, said only, 

" Grin and bear ! " 
So I love my little Devil, for he '11 help me win the 

strife, 
With his comprehensive grasp of the philosophy of 

life. 



50 



A BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS 
BURDENS 



THE burden of gay greeting. Vain delight, — 
For who among us means a word we say ? 
In hackneyed speech we clothe our message trite, 
And idly voice the wishes of the day. 
We smile and bow in our accustomed way, 
While our indifference we try to hide, 

Stifling our boredom, striving to be gay — 
This is the end of every Christmas-tide. 

The burden of much giving. Every year 

We realise anew the fearful fraud 
This custom is. And then, albeit we sneer, 

We buy afresh the bauble and the gaud, 

Hoping thereby to win a hollow laud, 
Or gain a compliment to feed our pride ; 

Contented if the giddy world applaud — 
This is the end of every Christmas-tide. 
5* 



IDLE IDYLS 



The burden of scant shekels. Woe impends 

The wight whose way is with this danger fraught ; 
Lured by the Spirit of the Times he spends 

More than he meant to and more than he ought. 

And when he views the gew-gaws he has bought, 
And sees his empty pockets yawning wide, 

He sadly bows his head in anxious thought — 
This is the end of every Christmas-tide. 

The burden of swift shopping. Crowded streets 

And rushing messengers our way impede. 
Our innocence the wily fakir cheats, 

And fleeces us, weak victims to his greed ; 

Or haply haughty clerks pay us no heed : 
At our approach they partly turn aside 

Until our ire our patience doth exceed — 
This is the end of every Christmas-tide. 

The burden of great eating. Other days 

It matters not so much how we may dine ; 
But at this festival tradition says 

We must bestir, and kill the fatted kine. 

The board must groan 'neath rarest food and wine, 
Boar's head and wassail bowl we must provide, 

That our digestion we may undermine — 
This is the end of every Christmas-tide. 
52 



A BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS BURDENS 



ENVOY 

Comrades, and ye who Christmas pleasures seek, 
These timely thoughts to you I would confide ; 

Hearken unto the wisdom that I speak : 
This is the end of every Christmas-tide. 



53 



THE POSTER GIRL 

THE blessed Poster Girl leaned out 
From a pinky-purple heaven ; 
One eye was red and one was green ; 

Her bangs were cut uneven ; 
She had three fingers on her hand, 
And the hairs on her head were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 

No sunflowers did adorn ; 
But a heavy Turkish portiere 

Was very neatly worn ; 
And the hat that lay along her back 

Was yellow, like canned corn. 

It was a kind of wobbly wave 

That she was standing on, 
And high aloft she flung a scarf 

That must have weighed a ton. 
And she was rather tall, — at least 

She reached up to the sun. 
54 



THE POSTER GIRL 



She curved and writhed, and then she said, 
Less green of speech than blue : 

" Perhaps I am absurd — perhaps 
I don't appeal to you ; 

But my artistic worth depends 
Upon the point of view." 

I saw her smile, although her eyes 

Were only smudgy smears ; 
And then she swished her swirling arms, 

And wagged her gorgeous ears. 
She sobbed a blue -and -green checked sob, 

And wept some purple tears. 



55 



SONNET ON THE SONNET ON 
THE SONNET 

WHAT is the sonnet on the sonnet ? Well, 
It is a bit of verbal filigree, 
A mass of metaphor and simile, 
A little wooden poem made to sell. 
What does the sonnet on the sonnet tell ? 
It murmurs of the murmurs of the sea, 
Or buzzes of the buzzing of the bee, 
Or tinkles of the tinkling of a bell. 

Why is the sonnet on the sonnet writ ? 
Forsooth, he deems that he a boon confers 
Who paints the lily or pure gold refines ; 
And so the writer glories in his wit, 
And calls himself a poet ; yet he errs : 
He gives us only fourteen prosy lines. 



56 




SPRING'S REVENGE 



FATHER TIME in his office was sitting, 
When he happened to spy 
A calendar nigh. 
" Goodness me ! " he exclaimed, " how I 'm flitting ■ 
My days are just scurrying by ! 

" The world has used up the whole winter, 
And demands the next stage 
At the turn of the page ; 
I declare, one must be a real sprinter 
To keep up with the pace of this age. 
57 



IDLE IDYLS 



" Here, Spring, get your garlands and flowers ; 
With laughter and mirth 
You must skip down to earth, 

Take plenty of sunshine and showers, 
And hurry for all you are worth." 

Then said Spring, with a pout of unreason, 

" Oh, please, Father dear, 

Let me off just this year ; 
I hate the Earth more every season, 
It 's a silly, absurd little sphere ! " 




SPRING'S REVENGE 



" Why, my child," said old Father Time, frowning, 

" They are waiting, you know, 

And of course you must go, 

The poets their Queen would be crowning. 

What on Earth has offended you so ? " 



" Spring odes, lays, and ballads they fashion ; 

I 've known one man to pen 

As many as ten ! 
And I vow " — here she flew in a passion — 
" I never will go there again ! " 



" Well, of course you can't help their admiring," 

Said Time, looking wise, 

" So 1 would advise 
That you travel incog., by attiring 
Yourself in some sort of disguise." 



" Oh, Time, what a clever suggestion ! 
'T is the very best thing," 
Exclaimed giddy young Spring. 
" Now what shall I wear ? — that 's the question, 
When my merry way earthward I wing. 
59 



IDLE IDYLS 



" Here 's a snow robe of Winter's, that 's jolly ; 

I '11 take it to wear, 

And I '11 stick in my hair 
Some mistletoe sprays and some holly — 
They '11 never know me, I declare ! " 




SPRING'S REVENGE 



" Come, come," said old Time, " you must hurry, 

T is Feb. 28, 

March 1 is your date, 
And I'm in a sad state of worry, 
For I am morally sure you '11 be late." 

" All right," answered Spring, " I am going." 

Her mantle she drew 

Around her and flew 
Down to Earth, where 't was blowing and snowing — 
She crept in and nobody knew. 




<tfk^ 






T 



-a 











6i 



4^J 



&?/. 



A BALLADE OF PETITION 



" The Blue Skalallatoot stories are all morning stories." 

— Rudyard Kipling 

PRINCE of the Pen, your work comprises 
Love and Glory and Fame and Gore, 
Your versatile genius authorises 
The babble of babes and the jungle roar, 
Tales you tell of the crew and corps, 
The old official and young recruit ; 

We 've read all these, and we beg for more — 
We want the Blue Skalallatoot. 

The weird name baffles all surmises, 

Its strange uncertainty we 'd explore ; 
For ever the heart of man despises 

The mysteries he has solved before ; 

We only delve for the hidden ore, 
We crave unknown, not forbidden fruit ; 

Give us the treasure you have in store, 
We want the Blue Skalallatoot. 
62 



A BALLADE OF PETITION 

Tell us, we pray, what his shape and size is, 

Did he reside on the sea or shore ? 
Recount his exciting enterprises, 

Tell what he lived on and what he wore ; 

Over his story we fain would pore, 
Sharpen your quill or tune your lute ; 

In verse or story or old folk-lore 
We want the Blue Skalallatoot. 

L'ENVOI 

Kipling, we 've read your tales of yore, 
How Bagheera growled and Mulvaney swore. 

Now whether he 's Man or Thing or Brute, 

We want the Blue Skalallatoot. 



63 



CUPID'S FAILURE 



CUPID one day, in idle quest, 
Fitted a dainty dart 
And aimed it at Priscilla's breast, 
To strike Priscilla's heart. 

Clean through it went, no heart was there ; 

Said Cupid, " I believe 
Priscilla's just the girl to wear 

Her heart upon her sleeve." 

But there, alack ! it was not found ; 

" Aha ! " cried Cupid, " note 
Her frightened air ; now I'll be bound 

Her heart is in her throat." 

Failure again. On slender chance 

He one more arrow shoots ; 
Assuming from her downcast glance 

Her heart is in her boots. 

Foiled, Cupid threw aside his bow ; 

" She has no heart," said he. 
(He did not know that long ago 

She gave her heart to me.) 
6 4 



THE CELEBRANTS 

WITH a shout of joy the rocket stars 
Shot up through the evening air, 
Triumphantly they reached the sky, 

And the stars of God were there. 
" Make way ! " the rocket stars cried out, 

" Make way, and give us place : 
We have a mission to perform, 

We 've travelled leagues of space. 
We 're sent up here to celebrate 

A glorious country's birth — 
Make way ! But a moment we can stay, 

Ere we die and fall to earth." 

Then spake the old and kindly stars : 

" Ye be bright, oh, rocket-spawn, 
But we are here since the morning stars 

Sang at Creation's dawn. 
By the Master Hand we were hurled on high 

To celebrate the Day. 
We, too, but shine for the moment, Time, 

And then we fade for aye. 
But have your way, oh, tiny sparks, 

And while ye may, shine on." 
Ere the kindly voices ceased to speak, 

The rocket stars were gone. 
5 65 



"THEY THAT GO DOWN TO 
THE SEA IN SHIPS" 



COME with the rest of us 
Down to the sea ! 

There is where we 
Show out the best of us. 

Holiday keep, 
Chums with the waves ; 

When saucy winds sing, 
All of our cares 

Back to them fling ; 
Doldrums, despairs 

Burying deep 
In the upspringing caves. 

Come then with me, 

Down to the sea, 

Down to the sea. 

'Neath the sun blinking, 

All the forenoon 
On deck I lie, 

And look without shrinking 
My soul in the eye, 

Hearing the croon 
66 



"THEY THAT GO DOWN TO THE SEA 

Of wandering waves 

That have lost their way ; 

Then a dashing of spray, 

Like all April let loose, 
Now daring the braves, 

Now calling a truce. 
Then under our view 
Grey melts to blue, 
Blue hardens to grey. 
Oh, what a day ! 
Is there such thing as 

Sorrow or age ? 
Is there such sting as 

Rancour or rage ? 

How much he misses 

Who knows not the sea ! 
Its lingering kisses 

Are salt on our lips — 

How the boat skips, 
Dipping and scooping ! 

Here is a sight, 

Here is delight 
Out of all whooping ! 
Vogue-la-galere, 
Devil-may-care, 
67 



IDLE IDYLS 



We know the Master- Word, 
We have its summons heard. 
Come then with me 
Down to the sea, 
Down to the sea. 



68 



A MAIDEN'S NO 

Maidens turn their heads away 

Meaning yes, and saying nay. — Old Song. 

SHE thought to mask her heart from me 
With jest and laughter gay ; 
I knew she loved me by her glance 
(She looked the other way) . 

I sent her roses, begging she 
Would wear them. The coquette 

Told me she loved me by her choice 
(She wore some mignonette). 

And when a rival claimed my waltz, 

By her capricious whim 
She plainly showed she cared for me 

(She gave the dance to him) . 

She loved me well ; and one fair night 

I asked her if 't were so ; 
I knew it by her whispered word 

(She softly murmured " No"). 
6 9 



THE ORIGINAL SUMMER GIRL 



A 



FTER much biologic research, 
From evidence strong, I believe 
That I have found out 
Beyond shadow of doubt 
That the first Summer Girl was Eve. 

She had unconventional ways, 
She lived out-of-doors, and all that ; 

She was tanned by the sun 

Until brown as a bun, 
For she roamed 'round without any hat. 

To a small garden-party she went, 
Where the men were exceedingly few ; 

But she captured a mate 

And settled her fate, 
As often these Summer Girls do. 

Now, my statement of course I have proved, 
But as evidence that is n't all ; 
A Summer Girl she 
Is conceded to be 
Because she staid there till the Fall. 
70 




w\ 



^ / 



A I 



$ "'A 









(P^/le*/^ 



THE DEBUTANTE 

THERE 'S a new heart awaiting a tenant ; 
To whom shall its portals unclose ? 
Dan Cupid is flying his pennant 
At The Sign of the Lily and Rose. 

This heart is not offered for selling, 

The owner all freely bestows 
A hostelry fit for Love's dwelling, 

At The Sign of the Lily and Rose. 

There 's a happy smile caught in her dimple, 

That only a debutante shows ; 
And chatter is guileless and simple 

At The Sign of the Lily and Rose. 

She 's pleased with the veriest trifles, 
No artful bewitchment she knows ; 

But Cupid a sigh or two stifles 
At The Sign of the Lily and Rose. 

7i 



IDLl IDYl 



.. I ...-I- . .1 II.. I ■ I I I. II. I 

i.. n. mi .1 n.. ii n trln • I I 

w -ii.. ii .... , i . i 1. 1 1. 1 

\i i hi i ii- I il] wd I ■• • 



<- 



BALLADE OF WISDOM AND 
FOLLY 

I V 1 Ml ,11.,, 

ISTIU . . , . themes w iu> rigid 
i .. m i 1 1 ... i i hilo i 
Sermons and cienci in 1 1 declare 

w i I im thi Dodli« i i .!.. i 

But when J read ith a live] . 1. 1 
Roiii. i in i ill i I..., ,,, i ,,,, ii, 
i laugh t.. in ii md I clearl see 

Folly '§ thl i tin i nun. ...i | nth. 

To copy the masters 1 oft rei iii 
Of Rnpi .. ... 1 1 ml ii . 'i oteej 

1 study line an I h i ..i. 

Wisdom 's the i oodlii I - tin I m 

Then 1 see a sketch i,, i u. liter key, 
Ah, line and school were never worth 

i his little Frerw h nil of frivolity,— 
Folly's the fairesi ii" >lh. 

73 



IDLE IDYLS 



I know a girl who is calm and fair, 

Of ancient and noble pedigree ; 
She 's wise and learned beyond compare, 

Wisdom 's the goodliest gain for me. 

But another holds my heart in fee, 
Without her, life were a dreary dearth ; 

Fickle and foolishly fond is she, — 
Folly 's the fairest thing on earth. 

L'ENVOI 

Prince, I am sure you must agree 
Wisdom 's the goodliest gain for me. 
But ever I '11 give it the widest berth, — 
Folly 's the fairest thing on earth. 



74 



A POSSIBILITY 

I ONLY kissed her hand ; 
Is that why Lisette dislikes me ? 
I cannot understand — 
I only kissed her hand, 
I deserved a reprimand ; — 

But another notion strikes me, 
I only kissed her hand ; 
Is that why Lisette dislikes me ? 



75 



A MEMORY 

HOW dear to this heart are the old-fashioned 
dresses, 
When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
In fancy I see the old wardrobes and presses 
Which held the loved gowns that in girlhood 1 
knew. 
The wide -spreading mohair, the silk that hung 
by it; . 
The straw-coloured satin with trimmings of 
brown ; 
The ruffled foulard, the pink organdy nigh it ; 
But, oh ! for the pocket that hung in each 
gown ! 
The old-fashioned pocket, the obsolete pocket, 
The praiseworthy pocket that hung in each gown. 

That dear roomy pocket I 'd hail as a treasure, 
Could I but behold it in gowns of to-day ; 

I 'd find it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
But all my modistes sternly answer me " Nay ! " 

76 * 



A MEMORY 



T would be so convenient when going out shopping, 

T would hold my small purchases coming from 

town ; 

And always my purse or my kerchief I 'm dropping — 

Oh, me ! for the pocket that hung in my gown ! 

The old-fashioned pocket, the obsolete pocket, 

The praiseworthy pocket that hung in my gown. 

A gown with a pocket ! How fondly I 'd guard it ! 

Each day ere I 'd don it, I 'd brush it with care ; 
Not a full Paris costume could make me discard it, 
Though trimmed with the laces an Empress might 
wear. 
But I have no hope, for the fashion is banished ; 

The tear of regret will my fond visions drown ; 
As fancy reverts to the days that have vanished, 
I sigh for the pocket that hung in my gown. 
The old-fashioned pocket, the obsolete pocket, 
The praiseworthy pocket that hung in my gown. 



77 



THE VAMPIRE OF THE HOUR 



(WITH APOLOGIES TO MR. KIPLING AND MR. BURNE- 
JONES) 

A FOOL there was, and he paid his fare 
(Even as you and 1!) 
To see Le Gallienne's hank of hair 
(We said he was only a fake affair), 
But the fool he called him a genius rare, 
(Even as you and I!) 

Oh, the fads we make, and the freaks we take, 

And the glories we all believe 
Belong to the jaundiced degenerate, 
Or the mystical mattoid at any rate, 

With his handkerchief up his sleeve. 

A critic there was, and he had his whack 

(Even as you and I !) 
He wrote of a wondrous symposiac, 
(And it wasn't the least like Le Gallienne's clack), 
But a critic must follow the beaten track, 

(Even as you and 1 !) 
78 



THE VAMPIRE OF THE HOUR 



Oh, the lies we write and the lies we cite 

And the excellent things we say 
About whatever may happen to be 
The idol to which we bend the knee, 
The fetish of the day. 

The fool to meet the freak was bid, 

(Even as you and I!) 
Hoping he 'd show where his wit lay hid, 
(But it isn't on record Le Gallienne did), 
And the fool was bored, and so he slid 

(Even as you and I !) 

And it is n't the vice and it is n't the price 

That causes our gloom profound ; 
It 's coming to know that we all are fools, 
And we 're just as foolish as other fools 
Who follow the treadmill round. 



79 



A 



AN AQUARELLE 

MERMAID, people sometimes think, 
Has nothing else to do 
But to sit on the rocks 
And comb her locks 
The livelong summer through. 

But I will tell you of Mermaid Smith, 
And I '11 tell you of Mermaid Brown, 

Who would oft dispense 

O'er the garden fence 
The gossip of the town. 

On summer mornings, Mermaid Smith 
With her apron o'er her head, 

And Mermaid Brown 

In a calico gown 
And a sun-bonnet striped with red, 

At their garden gate for an hour or more 
Would loiter with idle fins, 
The little twirls 
Of their golden curls 
Done up in crimping- pins. 
80 



AN AQUARELLE 



And Mermaid Brown would tell Mermaid Smith 
How her jellyfish would n't jell ; 

It had simmered and boiled, 
Till she feared it was spoiled. 
Said Mermaid Smith, " Do tell ! " 

And Mermaid Smith had trouble too. 
She had set her sponge to rise, 
And it had n't riz. 
" What a shame that is ! " 
Said Mermaid Brown with sighs. 

Then perhaps they 'd discuss Miss Lorelei Green 

Who disappeared one day ; 

With a gay sea-urchin, 

While her parents were searchin', 

She wickedly ran away. 

And the two good fishwives deeply sighed, 
And expressed a heartfelt wish 

That both of their daughters 

In calm, placid waters 
Should attend a polite school of fish. 

Then one would say, " This won't do for me ! 
It 's time my work began." 

" And I must away," 

The other would say, 
" I've some ocean currents to can." 

6 81 



IDLE IDYLS 



And so the Mermaids, as you see, 
Are very much like us ; 

A little work, 

A little shirk, 
A little fluster and fuss. 



82 



IN ABSENCE 



(A RONDEAU) 



ON Christmas Day as far and near 
The bells ring out their message clear, 
Your thoughts will turn to me, I know, 
And mine to you as swift will go, 
To tell you that I love you, dear. 

And those whom you may see and hear 
Will not give greeting more sincere 
Than this I send across the snow 
On Christmas Day. 

Amid the mirth and merry cheer 
Of this glad time that crowns the year, 
Haply beneath the mistletoe, 
I '11 shyly whisper, sweet and low, 
A soft 70 Vaime just for your ear, 

On Christmas Day. 



83 



FROM VIVETTE'S MILKMAID 

AMAYDE ther was, semely and meke enow, 
She sate a-milken of a Purpil Cowe : 
Rosy hire Cheke as is the Month of Maye, 
And sikerly her merry Songe was gay 
As of the Larke uprist, washen in Dewe. 
Like Shene of Sterres sperkled hire Eyen two. 
Now came ther by that Way a hendy Knight, 
The Mayde espien in morwening Light. 
A faire Person he was, of Corage trewe, 
With lusty Berd and Chekes of rody Hewe : 
Dere Ladye (quod he), far and wide I 've straied, 
Uncouthe A venture in strange Contree made, 
Fro Berwike unto Ware. Parde I vowe 
Erewhiles I never sawe a Purpil Cowe ! 
Fayn wold I knowe how Catel thus can be ? 
Tel me, I praie you, of yore Courtesie ! 
The Mayde hire Milken stent. — Goode Sir, she saide, 
The Master's mandement on us ylaid 
Decrees that in these yclept Gilden Houres 
Hys Kyne shall ete of nought but Vylet Floures. 



84 



A WOMAN'S WAIL 

W/ HY ^° I wear a veil - ? 
* * T is of no use, 

T is always fetching loose, 

A plaything of the winds, that takes delight 

In ever being wrong and never right. 

Though of my costume 't is a chief detail, 

It makes me fret and fume and fuss and rail. 

This veil ! 

I cannot get it off when it is on, 

And once I doff it, then I cannot don. 

Why do I wear it ? 'T is a nuisance great, 

Beyond all words to state. 

And an expense 

Immense ! 

This wretched, flimsy veil ! 

It is so frail, 

To-day I buy a new one, and, behold, 

To-morrow it is old ! 

Forth to the shops then angrily I hie 

Another veil to buy. 

85 



IDLE IDYLS 



On every side I see rare bargain sales, 
But not of veils. 
And so I pay an awful price, 
For 1 must have it nice ; 
With knots, 
Or spots, 

Or tiny polka dots ; 
Or simple plain illusion. But of such 
1 buy six times as much. 
And so, 
You know, 

The cost is just as great. 
Oh, how 1 hate 
A veil ! 

Do you suppose 

I like to feel it rubbing 'gainst my nose? 
Forever catching on my eyelash tips, 
Persistently adhering to my lips, 
The while the ill-dyed blackness of its lace 
Makes grimy smudges on my face. 
Or if the veil be white, 
Itself it smudges till it is a sight ! 
Why do I wear it ? 
Why? 

It is a crime thus daily to enwrap 
One's self in such a microbe-trap J 
86 



A WOMAN'S WAIL 



Death and disease lurk hidden in its curves. 

A pest ! A bane ! A blot upon our sex, 

Just made to vex 

A burdened woman's overburdened nerves. 

Oh, Fashion, hear my wail ! 

Or is my plea to go without a veil 

Without avail ? 



87 



THE DISCRIMINANT 

GIVE me no colonial novel, give me no best-selling 
screed, 
For I 'm told Emotional Studies are the only things 

to read, — 
Questions of the Inner Ego by some stylish woman 

writ; 
Analytic introspection of capacities is It. 

Morbider than Henry James's, capabler than Mere- 
dith's, 

See the Elementary Heroines struggling like Hellenic 
myths! 

Oh, the joy of knowing surely how an elemental mind 

Is affected by emotion of an elemental kind ! 

Oh, the deep delight of learning just what's 
psychically true, 

By impressive demonstration from a subtle point of 
view! 

What extraordinary insights and reactions most com- 
plex 

Follow elemental kisses from the elemental sex. 

88 



THE DISCRIMINANT 



And ecstasy unspeakable through simple souls is sent 
When the psychical and physical are nebulously blent. 
And how deeply we Discriminating Readers have 

enjoyed 
The poetry of th' Impalpable effectively employed. 

So give me no more novels of historical import, 
No frivolous romances of a wishy-washy sort ; 
No stories of adventure or tales of hidden crime, 
For on these themes Discriminating Persons waste 
no time. 

And though my baser nature all longingly may look 
Toward Howells's new novel or Kipling's latest book ; 
Though in a thoughtless moment it seems to me I 'd 

like 
To read of Tommy's Grizel or of Stringtown on the 

Pike; 

Such desires I sternly banish, for I 'm bound, at 

any rate — 
In my fictional selection I will discriminate ; 
And nothing written shall my literary palate please 
But a Psychic Impressivity in subtle harmonies. 



89 



NOTHING TO READ 



THE BALLAD OF A BOSTON MAID 

MISS PARTHENIA BROWNING, of Boston, 
they say, 
Has accounts at three separate bookshops ; 
And yet she remarked to a caller one day, 
In a very despairing, resigned sort of way, 
That one might as well go to the cookshops, 
For nothing worth reading appeared any more ; 
She 'd looked over the volumes at every bookstore, 
And they all were so trashy. For her part, indeed, 
She was free to confess she had nothing to read. 
" Nothing to read ? " said her friend, in surprise, 
Toward Parthenia's bookcases casting her eyes — 
" Why, how can you say so, when all of those books 
Have never been opened, to judge from their looks ? 
And they 're very attractive — a well-chosen lot ; 
I should think you 'd enjoy that fine set of Scott." 
Miss Parthenia blushed, as if caught in a crime, 
90 



NOTHING TO READ 

But she answered : " I'm saving Scott till I 've more 

time." 
The friend ventured again, " Read Dickens, my 

dear ! " 
" Oh, his tales are so sad, and his people so queer ! " 
" Try Pope ! " " He 's too heavy." " Then Hope ! " 

"He's too light." 
" Read Howells's novels ! " " His plots are so slight." 
" Then Henry James' stories ! " " His words are 

so long ! " 
" Thomas Hardy ! " " Oh, goodness, he 's really too 

strong ! " 
" Then Weyman ! " " Too gory ! " " Miss Wilkins ! " 

" Too tame ! " 
" Sarah Grand ! " "I hate women who boast of 

their aim." 
" Well, Marie Corelli ! " " Oh, don't mention her ! " 
" Hall Caine ! " " No, indeed ; something gay I 

prefer." 
" Rudyard Kipling ! " "1 would, but our family 

physician 
Only yesterday borrowed my whole new edition." 
" Jerome ! " " He 's too silly." " Zangwill ! " " He 's 

too smart." 
"Then Richard Le Gallienne ! " "He has no 
art." 

9 1 



IDLE IDYLS 



" Mrs. Hodgson Burnett ! " " I detest her profanity." 
" Miss Rosa N. Cary ! " " Can't stand her inanity." 
" Try Cooper ! " "I 've read ' The Spy ' and ' The 

Rover'!" 
" Then Trilby ! " "I 've read that a dozen times 

over." 
" Read something of Marion Crawford's. They say 
His latest new book is the talk of the day." 
" I dare say it is, but that man writes so fast 
I could n't keep up with him. I think the last 
Of his books that I read was ' The Ralstons,' and so 
I 'm sorry ; but I '11 never catch him, I know." 
" Read Ian Maclaren." " He 's only a botch." 
"Or Barrie!" "He's good, but I don't care for 

Scotch." 
" Mrs. Oliphant, then, or Mrs. H. Ward ! " 
" By both of these women 1 'm awfully bored." 
"The Duchess!" "How dare you!" "Then 

Stockton or Doyle, 
Or Tolstoy's tales of the sons of the soil. 
Read Emerson's Essays, Macaulay, or Lamb, 
Or read ' The Rubaiyat ' of Omar Khayyam. 
Read tales of adventure by Irving or Poe, 
Or mild-mannered novels by Edward P. Roe ; 
Du Chaillu, du Maurier, De Quincey, Defoe, 
Or Byron, or Homer, or Jean Ingelow ; 
92 



NOTHING TO READ 



Or Shakespeare, or Swinburne, Villon, or Verlaine, 
Or Sienkiewicz, Merriman, Crockett, or Crane ; 
Or read Victor Hugo's wild murders and crimes, 
Or Oliver Herford's ridiculous rhymes. 
Lewis Carroll, or Riley, or Gilbert, or Lear — 
Surely some of these authors must please you, my 

dear! " 
But to each of the names in this motley collection 
Miss Parthenia Browning opposed an objection. 
And later when bidding her caller good-bye, 
She said, with a sad little smile and a sigh, 
" I 'm so much alone, you 'd be awfully kind 
If you 'd help to divert my too studious mind. 
And do lend me some books, for you must have 

agreed 
That really and truly I 've nothing to read." 



93 



A PICTURE 

THE hollyhock lifts its flowery torch, 
The meadow is starred with daisies fair ; 
The roses clamber about the porch, 
And bees swing by with an idle air. 

On the hillside linger the sheep sedate, 
Down in the fields are the lowing kine ; 

A maiden stands by the farmhouse gate 
Embowered by the sprays of a framing vine. 

A bird-note trills through the sunny sky ; 

A rustic swain comes up the road 
With a merry smile in his twinkling eye, 

As he guides his ox -team's heavy load. 

But what does she care for his flattering look, 
Or the buzzing bees, or the cows' sweet breath, 

Or the clustering vine, or the babbling brook ? 
She 's a city girl who is bored to death. 



94 



A PROBLEM 



THERE 'S a whimsey in my noddle, there 's a 
maggot in my brain, 
There 's a doubt upon my spirit that I cannot quite 
explain. 



'T is a grave, important question over which I vacil- 
late, — 

Does Enlightenment enlighten, and does Culture cul- 
tivate ? 

We are of the Cognoscenti, and intuitively know 
Just the shades of thoughtful fancy that an author 
ought to show. 

But from our exalted level should we drop a poisoned 

hint 
To the placid ones who wallow in the sordid slums 

of print ? 

Should the Unenlightened Readers be sardonically 

hissed 
If they like a Duchess novel better than The Egoist ? 
95 



IDLE IDYLS 



Should we rare ones who inhabit the exalted realms 

of thought, 
Dictate to the Unenlightened what they ought n't or 

they ought ? 

To the masses should our classes offer Ibsen when we 

find 
Mr. Caine and Miss Corelli better please the massy 

mind ? 

Should we shudder to discover that they cannot get 

the pith 
Of the tenebrastic subtleties of Mr. Meredith ? 

Should we rudely contradict them when they con- 
fidently say, 

" Omar wrote The Iliad and Holmes' first name was 
Mary J."? 

Or shall we abandon flatly this whole altruistic fight, 
With the philosophic dictum that " Whatever is, is 
right " ? 

Then, instead of wasting time in teaching others how 

to think, 
We can spend those precious moments with Hafiz or 

Maeterlinck. 

96 



A PROBLEM 



Let us stop our futile task of pointing to the open 
door, 

Let the Enlightened cease enlightening and the Cult- 
ured cult no more. 



97 



THE DEGENERATE NOVELIST 

BENEATH a sheltering pseudonym 
He writes those grisly tales and grim, 
That sicken and depress ; 
A primrose by a river's brim 
A yellow aster is to him, 
And it is nothing less. 



98 



HER SPINNING-WHEEL 

HER spinning-wheel she deftly guides, 
As by the homely hearth she bides ; 
Within a quaint, old straight-backed chair, 
A damsel with a modest air, 
Over the treadle swift, presides. 

But through the years Time onward glides, 
Careless if good or ill betides ; 
Nor will his ruthless changes spare 
Her spinning-wheel. 

Another cycle he provides, 

Though censor carps and critic chides, 

The modern maid, fearless and fair, 

Daintily gay and debonair ; 
Trimly equipped, triumphant rides 
Her spinning wheel. 



99 



LrfC 



UNKIND FATE 

'THO a pretty little cottage, 

■*- At Seashore-by-the-Sea, 
I went to spend a season 

With my friend, Carruthers Lee. 
We met two charming maidens, 

As sweet as they could be ; 
But fate was unpropitious, 
As I 'm sure you will agree. 
For I loved Polly, 

And Polly loved Lee, 
And Lee loved Kitty, 
And Kitty loved me. 

I could n't restrain my passion 

For Polly, so sweet was she ; 
While Carruthers was just determined 

That Kitty his bride should be. 
The girls were shy and timid, 

But 't was easy enough to see 
That Polly was fond of Carruthers, 

While Kitty favored me. 

IOO 



UNKIND FATE 



Yes, I loved Polly, 

And Polly loved Lee, 
And Lee loved Kitty, 

And Kitty loved me. 

I pleaded my cause with Polly, 
I wooed her on bended knee ; 
While Carruthers courted Kitty, 
And earnestly urged his plea. 
The girls looked sad and wistful, 
Or laughed in pretended glee, 
But they answered " No " to our pleadings ; 
And so, all hopelessly, 
I still love Polly, 

And Polly loves Lee ; 
And Lee loves Kitty, 
And Kitty loves me. 



WOMAN'S WAY 

FATHER TIME sat in his study, 
Lounging in his easy-chair. 
Nice old chap, so hale and ruddy, 

With his long white beard and hair. 

Suddenly unto his portal 

Came a sound of flying feet — 
Prettier than any mortal — 

April entered, fair and sweet. 

In a gown of primrose yellow, 

With a manner gay and blithe — 

" Daddy Time, you dear old fellow ! " 
Said she, fingering his scythe. 

Father Time looked wisely at her, 
And indulgently he smiled. 

" I don't care to hear you flatter ; 

Tell me what you want, my child." 



WOMAN'S WAY 



Then said April, coming closer, 
By the forelock taking him, 

" Easter 's almost here — and oh, sir, 
I 've my Easter hat to trim. 

" Such a pretty Easter bonnet — 

But, you see I really need 
Some spring birds and posies on it." 

But Time thundered " No, indeed ! 

" Such audacity 's appalling ! 

Birds and flowers belong to May." 
Then the crystal tears came falling 

(Crafty April knew the way). 

And she said, though April showers 

Almost drowned her plaintive words, 

" Can't I have a few small flowers — 
And a half a dozen birds ? " 

" There, there ! do not cry, my poppet " 
(Time was just like other men). 

" Don't cry ! If you '11 only stop it 
You may have your posies then." 
103 



IDLE IDYLS 



Quick the tears that had been streaming 
Disappeared and left no trace. 

Soon a radiant smile was beaming 
On Miss April's lovely face. 

And she had for her adorning 

All the birds and blossoms bright. 

Crowned with these on Easter morning 
April was a charming sight. 



104 




io5 



THE TRAILING SKIRT 

OH, product of this vain and vapid age, 
I would I could thy doom presage ! 
With righteous wrath it makes me rage 
To think that in these late, enlightened years 
Such an enormity appears 
As thy lank length. I marvel and lament 
That such a bane was sent. 
Why cumberest thou the earth ? 
Of thee we have no need, 
Even though thou 'rt decreed 
By Worth. 

Thou trundling, trailing skirt ! 
Smearing thyself with dirt, 
Forever catching in the swinging doors 
As we go in and out of stores. 
One should be a contortionist expert, 
To manage a trained skirt. 
Trained skirt, indeed! I would thou hadst been 

trained 
To hold thyself up when it rained ! 
Perchance 1 pick thee up and carry thee, 
Then see — 

1 06 



THE TRAILING SKIRT 

My arm 

Shortly grows cramped and tired. 

Where is thy charm, 

trailing skirt, that thou shouldst be desired ? 
Perchance I let thee trail, 

A mass of cloth that drags 

In rags 

And tags 

Like Dorothy Draggletail. 

Then on thy folds a sturdy heel is placed. 

Of course, 

1 'm stopped perforce. 

(I feel thee parting from my waist !) 

When I proceed 't is with the dread 

That I shall tread 

Upon some other victim's dragging gown, 

And, peering down, 

I pick my steps with care about the town. 

I may not look to left or right, 

I miss the sight 

Of all that I came out to see ; 

I pass the friends who bow to me 

Without a glance. 

Or, if perchance 

1 shun the dangers of the muddy street 
And in a crowded car lurch to a seat, 
107 



IDLE IDYLS 



That dreadful train attacks the angry, vexed 

Man who sits next ! 

And, like a living thing, 

Contrives to writhe and cling 

And twine itself completely round his feet. 

Chagrined, I grab the floundering folds, 

While every one beholds 

The lining splashed and binding frayed 

Of my best " tailor-made," 

Which, when I started, but an hour ago, 

Was neat and trim and comme ilfaut. 

Oh, how can rational women wear 

Such awful things, nor dare 

Even feebly to protest 

Against the pest ? 

To be so blindly bound by Fashion's thralls, 

Afraid to break her rules, 

We must be silly fools ! 

At any rate, 

We must be what Max Nordau calls 

Degenerate ! 



108 



QUATRAIN 

YOUTH throws a glamour over everything', 
Clothes wrong with right, and veils a lie with 
truth ; 
But age, more daring still, essays to fling 
A glamour over youth. 



109 



THE BALLADE OF THE AD. 

THE merit of story or verse 
Let others assert and explain, 
Let others recount and rehearse 
The work of the erudite brain. 
The subject of my humble strain 
No eulogy ever has had, 

For sages and poets disdain 
The cheery, ubiquitous ad. 

In language both graphic and terse, 

In homely, colloquial vein 
Your notice it seems to coerce, 

Your attention it 's bound to enchain. 

Although of its art you complain, 
Though its rhythm and metre are bad, 

Yet still in your mind 'twill remain, 
The cheery, ubiquitous ad. 

If you but a trifle disburse, 

It offers you marvellous gain ; 
And quite within reach of your purse 

A miracle you may obtain, 

I IO 



THE BALLADE OF THE AD. 

From a cot to a castle in Spain, 
A fancy, a fake, or a fad ; 

There 's nothing escapes its domain, 
The cheery, ubiquitous ad. 

L'ENVOI 

Gentle reader, I 'm sure you '11 maintain 

That he is a churl or a cad 
Who counts as a nuisance or bane 

The cheery, ubiquitous ad. 



in 



AUBREY BEARDSLEY'S 
PICTURES 

A SPLOTCH of black, a splash of white, 
And here and there a curving line ; 
The artists rave, the critics fight, 
The people murmur " How divine ! " 



JI2 



HER EASTER MORNING 

I SAT at my ease, and my mind was at rest, 
The holiest feelings were filling my breast, 
For 1 knew I was smartly and properly dressed 
And was calmly convinced I was looking my best ; 

But the musical drones, 

In monotonous tones, 
Sent a feeling of drowsiness all through my bones, 
And visions unusual my senses impressed ; 
The air all about me was surely possessed 

With curious things 

Which soared upon wings, 
Or waved through the air suspended by strings. 
I thought they were butterflies, fairies, or bats, 
But on closer inspection they proved to be hats 
Of every description, from steeples to flats ; 
And though moving for years in the best of society, 
I never have seen such enormous variety 

Of cottage and poke, 

Of turban and toque, 
Trimmed with feathers of ostrich and feathers of 
coque. 

8 113 



IDLE IDYLS 



There were bonnets of velvet and bonnets of lace, 
For every occasion and every place ; 
Bonnets of silks and bonnets of satins, 
Bonnets for vespers and bonnets for matins, 

Bonnets of jet 

And bonnets of net, 
Trimmed with every conceivable kind of rosette. 
A Gainsborough beaver, with wide rolling brim, 
A demure little gipsy, exceedingly prim. 
There were hats of all colours, blue, white, green, and 

black, 
Turned up in the front and turned up in the back, 
And a ripple-edged, feather-trimmed, beaded felt 
plaque. 

And all of these hats, 

Like a great swarm of gnats, 

The whole place o'erspread, 

And to my great dread 
Each one seemed determined to light on my head. 

I tried hard to say 

"Oh, take them away," 
When the voice of a neighbour devoutly implored 
At my side, " We beseech Thee to hear us Good 

Lord," 
1 gave a great start, I awoke with a lurch — 
T was Easter, and I had been sleeping in church. 
114 



AN UNWRITTEN POEM 

UPON this mossy bank I'll sit, within this 
flowery dell, — 
It is the place by poets most preferred, — 
And in a blithesome ballad 1 '11 poetically tell 
The sentiments of yonder little bird." 

" O poet, spare me ! " cried the bird ; " I'm weary of 
this thing ! 
Excuse me if I plainly speak my mind ; 
But I 've had my poem taken twenty-seven times 
this Spring, 
Oh, let me go, if you will be so kind ! " 

" Why, certainly," the poet said, " it matters not to 
me, 
Another theme will just as well avail ; 
I '11 write a lyric poem to this budding apple-tree, 
Or a dithyrambic ode, beginning ' Hail ! ' " 
"5 



IDLE IDYLS 



" I beg your pardon," said the tree, " I pray you will 
desist, 
And seek some other victim, if you please ; 
I 've had enough of ' cheered by sun ' and ' by the 
breezes kist.' " 
" 1 '11 write then," said the poet, " of the breeze." 

" Nay, poet," sighed the weary breeze, " it makes 
me very tired 
To ' toss the tresses of the trees ' in rhyme ; 
Already since the first of May twelve poets I 've in- 
spired ; 
I '11 thank you if you '11 let me off this time." 

" Don't mention it, I beg, O Breeze, — of this fair 
flow'r I '11 speak." 
But the flower answered gaily, " I protest ! 
I cannot pose for you ; 1 've sat for poems all the 
week, 
And I really think I ought to have a rest." 

" What can I do ? " the poet cried. " Ah, here is 
Spring herself. 
Goddess ! I pray you grant an interview — 
I '11 place you in the public eye as fairy, sprite, or elf, 
Or write a stirring sonnet to your shoe." 
n6 



AN UNWRITTEN POEM 

" Oh, nonsense, poet ! " cried the Spring, " with that 
we can dispense ; 
Why waste your time on hackneyed themes and 
trite ? 
Come, go a- Maying with us, and when sun sets hie 
you hence, 
And write about the song you did n't write." 



"7 



THE BOOK LIFTER 

YOU 'VE heard of the Book Collector, the Book 
Lover, the Bookworm, 
The Book Maker and Book Seller too, — each is a 

well-known term. 
The " Bookman " and " Book Buyer " are to us a real 

delight, 
But it 's of the bad Book Lifter that I 'm going for to 

write. 
His smile is most engaging, and he has a well-stocked 

mind, 
He 's suave and pleasant spoken and particularly kind : 
But I know his tricks and manners, and 1 tremble 

when I see 
The odious Book Lifter come in to visit me. 
He entertains me with the latest literary chat, 
As he scans my newest volumes. Then he picks out 

this or that, 
And remarks as he is leaving, with a manner so polite : 
" I '11 skim this over hurriedly and send it back to- 



night." 



118 



THE BOOK LIFTER 



But I know the bad Book Lifter 's the forgetfullest of 

men, 
And I know that I shall never see that borrowed book 

again. 
Or perhaps, with much apology, his case he frankly 

states, 
And begs a book of reference to see about some 

dates. 
He '11 return it " on the morrow," but I feel a little 

glum 
O'er a well-defined conviction that to-morrow '11 

never come. 
Or perhaps he 's absent-minded — does n't know what 

he 's about, 
When he pockets a small volume, quite unconsciously, 

no doubt. 
Or he comes when I am not at home, and says that 

he 's a friend 
To whom at any time most willingly my books I 

lend. 
Then he enters with assurance and a deprecating 

smirk, 
And takes a handsome copy of an illustrated work. 
Or perhaps he is a writer, and some subject, unfore- 
seen, 
Necessitates the scanning of a current magazine ; 
119 



IDLE IDYLS 



He has mislaid his copy — will I kindly lend him 
mine ? 

Of course in such emergency I really can't decline. 

Or he takes the newest novel, which I have n't read 
myself, 

Or volume six or seven from a set upon the shelf ; 

Or one of my pet classics, or a rare old Elzevir — 

And one by one 1 sadly see my treasures disappear. 

I 'm powerless to prevent them, for I can't be such 
a dunce 

As to seem to doubt the promise, " This shall be re- 
turned at once." 

But I sigh for some far desert isle or lonely foreign 
shore, 

Where the borrowers cease from borrowing and Book 
Lifters lift no more. 



1 20 



w 



UTILITARIAN 

HEN Cupid discovered how dull was his dart, 
He sharpened it straightway on Phyllis's 
heart. 



121 



UNDER A NEW CHARTER 

HELLO ! Come in ! I called you, Cupid, 
To take this box. Handle with care ! 
Look out ! don't be so careless, Stupid ; 
I 'd have you know my heart 's in there. 

Take it at once, boy, to Miss Kitty, 

And say it is a valentine. 
How happy she '11 look, and how pretty, 

When she discovers it is mine ! 

Tell her for her my heart is yearning, 
And then, unless my judgment errs, 

By the same messenger returning 
I rather think she '11 send me hers. 

What, Cupid, are you back already ? 

And bringing me Miss Kitty's heart ? 
Open it quickly ! Stay, be steady ! 

What 's this ? A neatly printed chart ! 

122 



UNDER. A NEW CHARTER 

" No spaces left at my disposal — 

Possibly some vacated soon ; 
But 1 have filed your kind proposal. 

Come up and call some afternoon." 

And here her heart is designated — 
What seas of dreams ! what flowery isles ! 

The boundaries all distinctly stated, 
And measured by a scale of smiles. 

A large tract 's given to her poodle ; 

A smaller one contains her cat ; 
Here is the claim of Lord Fitznoodle, 

Here her expensive picture-hat. 

Here I observe her mother's quarters ; 

This large compartment is her dad's ; 
Here, Revolutionary Daughters, 

And here her clubs and freaks and fads. 

Here is enshrined her baby cousin, 

And here that Count with whom she flirts ; 

Here are male tenants by the dozen 
(They 're only friends, so she asserts). 
123 



IDLE ID YLS 



This corner 's occupied by Irving, 
This by her pearl and turquoise pin ; 

Although I know I am deserving, 
I don't see how I can get in. 



124 



LEFT 

THE sky is blue, the sea is bright, 
The waves are dancing with delight, 
The earth is glad, my heart is gay, 
Sweet Kitty Somers comes this way. 

The sky is dark, the sea is grey, 

It is a gloomy, doleful day, 
The earth is sad, and sad am I, 

Miss Katharine Somers passed me by. 



125 



AN EXPLANATION 

ALL the world loves a lover," they say ; 
But I prove that untrue every day ; 
Whenever I try 
For a kiss on the sly, 
The world seems to get in the way. 

And when Mabel goes walking with me, 
The world says " Ahem ! " and " Te-hee ! " 

It gives a sly wink, 

And I certainly think 
It 's as horrid as horrid can be. 

So that proverb is lacking in force ; 
I wonder what gave it its source ; 

But stay, — oh, I see ! 

Why, Mabel loves me ! 
And she 's all the world to me, of course ! 



126 







OTHARIO LEE was saddened, the world 
seemed grim and grey ; 
For Lothario Lee was a lover bold, and to-day was 
St. Valentine's day. 

T was St. Valentine's day, and he fain would send 

his heart to the fair Florelle, 
For the radiant maid had inspired in his breast a 

passion he could not quell. 

But alas, for the gay Lothario, his heart was held in 

fee, 
Down at Dan Cupid's pawnshop, at the sign of the 

Roses Three. 

Willingly would the lovelorn knight that errant 

heart reclaim, 
But, alas ! the luckless Lothario had n't a cent to his 

name. 

1 27 



IDLE IDYLS 



So he sadly sat and pondered, as doleful as he could 

be; 
When a brilliant notion struck him — " Done ! " cried 

Lothario Lee. 

~yL 36212. 



r ilFiD '&.CC- 




" I'll send her the pawnshop ticket, my tale of woe 

't will tell, 
For she alone can redeem my heart, — the rich and 

rare Florelle." 



He sent her the tell-tale ticket, he scribbled a hasty 

line, 
Bidding her call at Dan Cupid's shop and claim her 

valentine. 



128 



THE LAY OF LOTHARIO LEE 

And as she read the message, in the soul of the fair 

Florelle 
A joyful thought rang merrily, like a far-away 

marriage-bell. 

With her heart in a frantic flutter, adown the street 

sped she, 
Till she reached Dan Cupid's pawnshop at the sign 

of the Roses Three. 

Cupid sat at a workbench, mending a broken dart ; 
" I am Florelle," said she, " and I come to claim 
Lothario's heart. 

" Here is the ticket, Cupid ; what are the ransom fees ? 
See, I will pay you the money ; give me the heart if 
you please." 

" But I am blind," said Cupid, " I cannot see the 

name ; 
Describe the heart you are looking for, and so make 

good your claim." 

" Lothario's heart," said the lady, " is brave and 

knows no fear." 
" Alas," said Cupid, dejectedly, " no such heart is 

here." 

9 129 



IDLE IDYLS 



" His heart," said the lady, further, " is honest, and 

good, and true." 
" No," said Dan Cupid, wofully, " not one of these 

hearts will do." 

" His heart to me is single, it beats for me alone." 
" Come, come," cried Cupid, " impossible ! such 
hearts I 've never known. 

" The best in my collection has been mended once or 
twice, 

But here 's a heart that may suit you, if you 're will- 
ing to pay the price. 

" It 's a heart that is sad and lonely, a trifle hard and 

cold, 
It seems to be rather scarred and worn, — in fact, it 's 

getting old. 

" It 's somewhat fickle and jealous, a bit impatient, 

too, 
And branded with several maidens' names, — Coralie, 

Rose, and Loo." 

" Why, that 's the very heart I want," said the lady ; 

" give it to me. 
That 's the one I 've been describing to you, the 

heart of Lothario Lee ! " 
130 



THE LAY OF LOTHARIO LEE 



\GM 



(^1 



^J 




As she left the shop in triumph, said Cupid, " I seem 

to find 
Each day a more convincing fact to prove that Love 

is blind." 1 3 l 



CHRISTMAS EVE 



T\/TY childhood's Christmases each brought to me 
«*-»-*■ The wondrous glory of a Christmas-tree ; 
Now every year since I 've to manhood grown, 
1 buy a tree for children of my own. 
And so to-night my mind looks back and sees 
Life a long avenue of Christmas-trees. 



132 



PAST AND PRESENT 



(WITH APOLOGIES TO MR. HOOD) 

T REMEMBER, I remember 
■*- The flat where I was born : 
The little air-shaft where the sun 

Could not peep through at morn ; 
The stuffy rooms and narrow halls 

Unlit by Heaven's ray ; 
The seven winding flights of stairs 

That took my breath away 

I remember, I remember 

The sickly daffodils 
That bloomed in old tomato-cans 

Upon the window-sills ; 
The cupboard where the cake was kept, 

And where my brother set 
A patent trap to catch a mouse, — 

That mouse is living yet ! 
»33 



IDLE IDYLS 



I remember, I remember 

The sounds I used to know : 
The organ on the floor above, 

The violin below ; 
The cats upon the fire-escape, 

The steam-heat in the wall ; 
The chorus-girl a-singing in 

The flat across the hall. 

I remember, I remember 

The scuttle dark and high 
Through which I often used to climb 

To get a glimpse of sky. 
I live in first-floor chambers now, 

With nothing to annoy, 
But still I 'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 



*34 



EPITAPH ON A BALLET 
DANCER 

T TERE lies our much-loved Coralie, 
!*■ ■*■ She danced o'er death's dark wave ; 
We 've seen her merry, but till now 
We never saw her grave. 



"35 



AN IMPORTANT TRUST 

SCANNING the morning paper o'er, 
I find, to my disgust, 
A new misfortune is in store — 
" They 've formed a Great Ink Trust." 

Now must I hang my ink-horn up, 

And leave my pens to rust ; 
Despair and sorrow fill my cup, 

" They 've formed a Great Ink Trust." 

As chief directors, doubtless, stand 

The Publishers, and then 
The Literary Agents, and 

The Clipping Bureau men. 

The stock, of course, is Limited, 

A small part may be sold ; 
But by a Syndicate, 't is said, 

The output is controlled. 
136 



AN IMPORTANT TRUST 

I own 't would give me quite a shock 

If these reports I heard : 
" Howells and James are common stock," 

And " Kipling is preferred." 

" Le Gallienne 's margined heavily ; 

Maclaren, dropped behind ; 
Hope shows a hardening tendency, 

Doyle's future has declined. 

" Hall Caine is selling below par ; 

In Barrie there 's a lull ; 
Hardy and Crawford steady are ; 

Meredith, firm but dull." 

Disconsolate and ill at ease 

I 'd read these stock reports ; 
/ can't compete with such as these — 

It makes me out of sorts. 

But stay ! such gloomy thoughts I '11 flout, 

My mind I '11 readjust — 
My inkstand yet may be bought out 

By this same Great Ink Trust ! 



»37 



AN UNORTHODOX CHRISTMAS 

WENT to spend the day with Rose, and then 
A Christmas greeting passed between us two ; 
But 't was not " Peace on Earth, good-will to men," 
We only said, " Good-morning," " How d'ye do ? " 

And then to her I offered smilingly 
The present she expected me to bring ; 

There were no hanging hose — no Christmas-tree — 
The box was tied in paper with a string. 

We did n't sit beside the Yule-log's blaze, — 
We just turned on the radiator's steam ; 

And dinner, unlike those of storied days, 
Gave no plum-pudding, but some bisque ice-cream. 

We did n't hear the church-bells' solemn toll ; 

And when we had our Christmas evening lunch, 
We did n't have a steaming wassail-bowl, 

But just a jug of simple claret punch. 
138 



AN UNORTHODOX CHRISTMAS 

We trampled on traditions, I suppose ; 

Yet one rite we observed with care — but, no, 
Although I well remember kissing Rose, 

It was n't underneath the mistletoe. 



*39 



IN THE KLONDIKE 

I'M only a homeless rover 
Up here in a Klondike camp ; 
I 've looked my possessions over 
By the light of my cabin lamp. 
Though I 'm an accepted lover, 
I 'm miles from that sweetheart of mine, 
And I 'm sore cast down, 
For in Dawson town 
1 can't buy a valentine. 

1 know she '11 have roses from Harry, 

A basket of Huyler's from Ned ; 
Beribboned carnations from Larry, 

A poetic effusion from Fred ; 
A volume of Kipling or Barrie 
From that idiot, somebody Hall, 
And nothing of mine 
For a valentine, 
Though she loves me best of all. 
140 



r~ 







\ k . 








! :•■'» ■'■, 






r; : 1 






. 





IN THE KLONDIKE 



Must my sentiment stay unspoken 

Because I 've no candies or bards ? 
I know she '11 be just heart-broken — 
Stay ! here is an old pack of cards ! 
Not a very appropriate token, 
Nor suggestive of Cupid's darts, 
But I know what I '11 do 
To prove I 'm true — 
I '11 send her the T" 




i 4 i 



CELA VA SANS DIRE 

I LIST to the wail of each latter-day poet 
Who discovers his themes must be six months 
ahead ; 
The same dire necessity, did he but know it, 
Has coerced every writer, both living and dead. 

My struggles with seasons full well I remember ; 

I am sure I speak whereof I know when I say 
That Tennyson wrote his May Queen in November, 

And Tom Hood composed his November in May. 

The Night before Christmas was sent to the printer, 

(I 'm morally sure) on the Fourth of July ; 
And of course June, Dear June was made up in the 
winter, 
And Spring, Gentle Spring, when the Autumn was 
nigh. 

The Death of the Old Year was written in Summer, 
Thomson's Seasons were all written out of their 
time, 
Yet these things astonish each timid newcomer 
Who aims to adopt the profession of rhyme. 
142 



THE THOUGHTFUL YARD 
STICK 

A YARDSTICK thus to himself did muse 
As he walked along the street ; 
" I must buy a pair and a half of shoes 
Because I have three feet." 



H3 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN 

ENEATH the corner street-lamp's flickering glare 
I stand with you, and know that we must part ; 
But as the last decisive moment comes, 
A coward hesitation fills my heart. 

I gaze once more upon your fair white face, 
And see the lines my hand has written there ; 

And though I know you 're inwardly composed, 
You 're visibly engrossed, and stamped with care. 

Wrapped up in you are all my highest aims ; 

To you my dearest secrets I 've revealed ; 
To you I 've trusted, as to kindly fate ; 

And as 1 look, I know my fate is sealed. 

But I am sure you will come back to me ; 

My fingers touch you in one last caress ; 
I let you go, to failure or to fame — 

My carefully compounded MSS. 



144 



OF MODERN BOOKS 



(A PANTOUM) 

OF making many books there is no end, 
Though myriads have to deep oblivion gone ; 
Each day new manuscripts are being penned, 
And still the ceaseless tide of ink flows on. 

Though myriads have to deep oblivion gone, 
New volumes daily issue from the press ; 

And still the ceaseless tide of ink flows on — 
The prospect is disheartening, I confess. 

New volumes daily issue from the press ; 

My pile of unread books I view aghast. 
The prospect is disheartening, I confess ; 

Why will these modern authors write so fast ? 

My pile of unread books I view aghast — 
Of course I must keep fairly up to date — 

Why will these modern authors write so fast ? 
They seem to get ahead of me of late. 

10 i 45 



IDLE IDYLS 



Of course I must keep fairly up to date ; 

The books of special merit I must read ; 
They seem to get ahead of me of late, 

Although I skim them very fast indeed. 

The books of special merit I must read ; 

And then the magazines come round again ; 
Although I skim them very fast indeed, 

I can't get through with more than eight or ten. 

And then the magazines come round again ! 

How can we stem this tide of printer's ink ? 
I can't get through with more than eight or ten — 

It is appalling when I stop to think. 

How can we stem this tide of printer's ink ? 

Of making many books there is no end. 
It is appalling when I stop to think 

Each day new manuscripts are being penned ! 



146 




A 



7 

=4 

S through Elysian Fields I strayed, 

I chanced upon a sight amazing ; 
In leafy shade 
Where fountains played, 
Old Pegasus was idly grazing. 

" Why are you here, my friend ? " said I. 
" Of modern poets are you weary ? " 

He gave a sigh, 

And dropped his eye, 
And seemed embarrassed by my query. 

Said he, " I'm treated with abuse, 
I 'm reckoned now among old-timers; 
There 's no more use 
For Pegasus, 
Since poets use the auto-rhymers." 
H7 



THE TRAGEDY OF A 
THEATRE HAT 



THE devil one day in a spirit of mirth 
Was walking around, to and fro, on the earth, 

When he heard a man say, 

In a casual way, 
" I think 1 '11 drop in at to-day's matinee; 
For I feel in the humour to see a good play, 
And the thing is a rattler, I 've heard people say." 

The devil stood by, 

With a smile in his eye, 
And he said, " I don't see any good reason why 
I, too, should n't go to this play that 's so fly." 
Now, His Majesty, as is well-known by the wise, 
Assumes at his will any kind of disguise ; 

And he said, " I will go 

To this wonderful show 
In the shape of a man, and arrayed comme il faut." 
No sooner 't was said than 't was done, and away 
His Majesty sped to the gay matinee. 
In faultless attire becomingly garbed, 
Concealing entirely his tail (which was barbed), 
148 



THE TRAGEDY OF A THEATRE HAT 

Correctly cravatted, 
And duly silk-hatted, 
With his two cloven hoofs patent-leathered and 

spatted, 
He approached the box-office with jauntiest airs, 
And purchased a seat in the orchestra chairs. 
Then removing his tile, 
He tripped down the aisle w 
With a manner which showed no appearance of 

guile, 
Although he could scarcely conceal a slight smile 
As he noticed the ladies who sat near to him, 
So modishly mannered, and quite in the swim, — 
The maidens so trim, 
And the matrons so prim, — 
And he thought how extremely they 'd be horrified 
If they had any notion who sat by their side. 
As His Majesty sat there enjoying it all 
There entered a lady exceedingly tall ; 
With a rustle of silk and a flutter of fur, 
She sat herself down in the seat kept for her, 
Right in front of Old Nick, and exactly between 
Himself and the stage. And her insolent mien 
Proclaimed her at once a society queen. 
Her shoulders were broad and supported a cape 
Which gave you no clue to her possible shape, 
149 



IDLE IDYLS 



T was so plaited and quilled, 

And ruffled and frilled, 
And it tinkled with bugles that never were stilled ; 

And wide epaulettes 

All covered with jets, 
Caught up here and there with enormous rosettes, 
And further adorned with gold-spangled aigrettes. 
Encircling her neck was a boa of gauze, 
Accordion-plaited, and trimmed with gewgaws ; 
And perched on the top of her haughty blond head 
Was a HAT! Now of course you have all of you 
read 

Of the theatre hats 

That are seen at the mats., 
That are higher than steeples and broader than flats ; 
But this one as far outshone all of the others 
As young Joseph's dream-sheaves exceeded his 

brothers'. 
T was a wide-rolling brim and a high-peaked crown, 
Black feathers stood up and black feathers hung 

down ; 
And black feathers waved wildly in every direction 
Without any visible scheme of connection. 
Twas decked with rare flowers of a marvellous 

size, 
And colours that seemed to bedazzle the eyes ; 



THE TRAGEDY OF A THEATRE HAT 

And each vacant space 

Was filled in with lace, 
And twenty-three birds in the ribbons found place. 
And as this arrangement quite shut off his view, 
The devil was nonplussed to know what to do. 
And although he is not very often amazed, 
Upon this occasion he found he was fazed. 

But looking around 

He very soon found 
That many fair ladies as gorgeously gowned, 

Held their hats in their laps, 

Or still better, perhaps 
Had left them outside in the room with their 

wraps. 
And assuming at once a society air, 
He leaned over the back of the fair stranger's chair, 

And with manner well-bred, 

" Beg pardon," he said, 
" Will you please take that awful thing off of your 

head ? " 
When what do you think ? The lady addressed 
Indignantly stared, and politely expressed 
A decided refusal to grant his request ! 

And the poor devil sat 

Behind that big hat, 
So mad that he did n't know where he was at. 
151 



IDLE IDYLS 



He could not see a thing that took place on the stage, 
And he worked himself into a terrible rage. 

Then he murmured quite low, — 

But she heard him, you know, — 
" Lady, since you refuse to remove that chapeau 
You 're condemned now to wear it wherever you go. 
Since you won't take it off when a duty you owe, 
You shall not take it off when you wish to do so." 
Alas for the lady ! The devil has power, 
And the rest of her life, from that terrible hour, 
The curse of the devil compelled her to wear 
That enormous Deflowered and befeathered affair. 
Her lot was a sad one. If you '11 reckon o'er 
The times when a hat is a terrible bore, 

You '11 certainly say 

That to wear it all day 
And then wear it all night is a fate to deplore. 
She wore it at dinners, she wore it at balls ; 
She wore it at home when receiving her calls ; 
She wore it at breakfast, at luncheon and tea, 
Not even at prayers from that hat was she free. 
She could n't remove it on going to bed, 
She rose, bathed, and dressed with that hat on her 

head. 
If she lounged in the hammock, perusing a book, 
Or went to the kitchen to speak to the cook, 
152 



THE TRAGEDY OF A THEATRE HAT 

In summer or winter, the hat was still there, 

And 't was so in the way when she shampooed her 

hair. 
Her lover would fain his fair sweetheart caress, 
But who to his bosom could tenderly press 
Twelve black, waving feathers and twenty-three birds ? 
He said what he thought, in appropriate words, 
And broke the engagement. She vowed she would go 
To a convent and bury her sorrow ; but no — 
They would n't receive her. It was the old tale, 
That hat quite prevented her taking the veil. 
The curse was upon her ! No mortal could save — 
She carried that ill-fated hat to her grave. 

MORAL 

Now, all you young women with Gainsborough hats, 
Beware how you wear them to Saturday mats. 

Remember the fate 

Of this maid up-to-date, 
And take warning from her ere it may be too late. 



*53 



BALLADE OF ECCLESIASTES 

BRAVELY the faithful genius toils for years, 
Ambition lures him onward day by day ; 
At last the fruitage of his work appears, 

His friends approve and critics have their say. 
Men crown him with the laurel and the bay, 
The guerdon of his fame is fairly won, — 

And has he then performed a wonder ? Nay, 
That which is done is that which has been done. 

The lover, tossed about 'mid hopes and fears, 

To his fair goddess will insanely pray, 
And begs her lovely favour when she hears 

The melancholy burden of his lay. 

And they assert, when she has murmured " Yea," 
Such wondrous love as theirs was known to none, — 

But lovers think the selfsame things alway, 
That which is done is that which has been done. 

So as we follow various careers 
Which offer us a choice of grave and gay, 

Made up alternately of smiles and tears, 
A little work and then a little play, 
•54 



BALLADE OF ECCLESIASTES 

As through the years we ignorantly stray, 
Thinking new enterprises we 've begun, 

We learn, when life is passing fast away, 
That which is done is that which has been done. 

L'ENVOl 

Solomon, you are long since turned to clay, 
But down the years your words shall ring for aye. 
" There is no new thing underneath the sun, 
That which is done is that which shall be done." 



i55 



NOV 14 1900 



